First Contact

Chapter 211: Questioning

The slider at eye level on the door pulled back, pulling Do'ormo'ot out of his stupor.

"Prisoner 4582143, you have sufficient privileges for one hour of social time. Do you wish to engage in social time at this temporal juncture?" a voice, again with the jarring pieced together audio, asked him. He could see black metal instead of normal facial features.

"Yes," Do'ormo'ot said, suddenly desperate for some kind of contact. He was starting to get thirsty and knew he would be hungry soon, his bladder was starting to signal he might need to urinate soon, and he could tell he would need to move his bowels in a few hours.

"Prisoner 4582143, exit your cell and follow. End of Line," the voice said.

The door clacked and opened. Do'ormo'ot trotted out, turning to avoid the door as it was shut again. The hallway was, like before, black stone and dimly lit. The being waiting was obviously female, despite being completely covered by the robe, mask, and gloves.

Without another word the figure started gliding down the hallway and Do'ormo'ot nervously followed. His training urged him to take advantage of the fact that only one guard was present and had their back turned but he reminded himself that Terrans were more resilient than any other discovered species. They combined strength, endurance, and resilience with a certain feral cunning intelligence and instinct that allowed them to move without thinking about it, making them highly dangerous combatants.

Do'ormo'ot knew that he could not overpower even a single Terran and resigned himself to following the figure through the black stone building. The path wound through hallways, taking them across empty rooms several times, up some stairs and down others, until he was led, blinking, into a room with a single door of black wood bound with black metal.

On a peg next to the door was a black robe, a metal mask, and a pair of long gloves.

"Prisoner 4582143, don your outer wear," the figure intoned.

Do'ormo'ot swallowed thickly, picking up the mask. It was shaped for his face, it would cover the front of his face, his long jaw, but was open at the bottom. He put it in place and shuddered at the cold feeling of it. The robe was thick, heavy, felt like it was too heavy and enclosing, like it was itchy even though it wasn't. The robe touched the ground, moving back and forth with his breathing. He put on all four of the two pairs of gloves and waited.

"Prisoner 4582143, you are allotted one hour of social interaction at Level One Interaction. You may engage in select topics of discussion, may engage in physical activity that is non-violent and does not interact with fellow prisoners, or you may simply enjoy the freedom of being out of your cell for one standard Black Citadel hour," the figure said. The door swung open, revealing a courtyard lit by the ever-present violet light.

"End of Line."

Do'ormo'ot had come to understand that those words were basically a dismissal and trotted out into the courtyard, looking around.

First thing he looked at were the walls. They were tall, twenty, maybe thirty feet, crenelated, topped with coiled wire. Walking the walls were robed figures with white gloves carrying naked sword blades. There were towers where other robed figures stood with what looked like string-tension projectile weapons.

Do'ormo'ot shook his head at the obvious disdain the Terrans had for the prisoners that none of the standard high tech procedures or equipment was in use.

He looked over the courtyard next. There were robed beings moving about. Some were lifting heavy metal plates attached to a bar, some were sitting on bleachers, and still others were sitting at tables. There were several robed figures with white gloves rather than the black gloves just standing at various places, unmoving. There were benches and picnic tables scattered about, many of them with a few bipedal robed figures sitting at them.

Do'ormo'ot chose a bench-table and trotted over, sitting down.

His training told him to start gathering information, but he had no idea who to even approach. There was no apparently leader, no apparent cliques for him to approach. He had no bribery, no leverage to apply.

He found he didn't like this state. It was nothing like his training. He had no tools, no barter items, no blackmail leverage.

Nothing.

A robed being came over and sat down, looking him up and down. Do'ormo'ot tried to ignore the figure, who had black gloves, tried to ignore the faint red glow in the eyes.

"So you're a cowpie," the figure said. Its voice was rough and gravelly.

"I am a Lanaktallan, not a 'cowpie', whatever that is," Do'ormo'ot replied.

"Rumor has it that you boys thought you'd take on the Corn Feds," the figure said, giving a rough laugh. "How's that working out for you?"

Do'ormo'ot stared for a moment. "That is none of your business. Who are you?"

The masked male laughed, a harsh sound that reminded Do'ormo'ot of the buzzing of angry insects. "John Vilda Ansoom, of the Austin OCP Epsilon-City Arcology, at your service."

Do'ormo'ot frowned behind his mask. Very little of that made sense. "I am Do'ormo'ot, Lanaktallan Executor Council. I am being held illegally for crimes I did not commit."

The masked male laughed again. He turned slightly. "Hey! Guard! He says he didn't do it! You have to let him go now!"

The ones in black gloves all laughed, sounds of aggression and mocking, making Do'ormo'ot stand up.

"I will not be mocked," he said.

The masked Terran laughed again. "Sit down, chump. Nobody cares," he turned again. "Hey, he won't be mocked, you better let him go right now, we got a badass here!"

More laughter and the Terran turned back to Do'ormo'ot. "See, nobody cares."

Do'ormo'ot turned away from the Terran, watching him still with his right side-eye.

"You think I can't see you eye fucking me, boy?" the Terran said. He laughed again. "Ooh, I have six eyes, surely that primitive monkey can't tell when I'm side-eyeing him."

The mocking tone got on Do'ormo'ot's nerves, but before he could retort the Terran raised his hand up, extending the two fingers closest to the thumb.

A white gloved figure drifted up and Do'ormo'ot noticed that it had black mist around the hem of its robe.

"You wish assistance, Prisoner 001834134?" the white gloved figure asked, the cobbled together voice sounding even more out of place after hearing a normal human voice.

"A glass of water, please. Cold, if you would, sir," the Terran said.

"Prisoner 001834134, you possess sufficient privileges for refreshment. This is the third of your six allowed daily allotments of liquid refreshment. End of Line," the figure said. It turned around, holding a tray with a single glass of water on it. It lifted the glass and set it down, the glass seeming to shimmer for a moment.

Do'ormo'ot stared at it, licking his suddenly dry lips, as condensation began to bead up on it.

"Looks good, don't it, cow-pie?" the Terran said, breaking into Do'ormo'ot's fantasy of drinking it down.

Do'ormo'ot inflated his crests in agreement then slumped slightly. "Yes."

"Then ask," the Terran said.

Do'ormo'ot followed the example. The white gloved bipedal (maybe. did they even have legs under the robe or were they just drifting on mist?) moved over silently.

"You wish assistance, Prisoner 4582143?" the figure asked.

"A glass of cold water," Do'ormo'ot asked.

"Prisoner 4582143, you possess insufficient privileges for refreshment. Please repeat your request at a later date," the figure said. "End of Line."

It drifted away as the Terran with the glass of water snickered.

"Welcome to the Citadel, cow-pie," he said. He got up, leaving the glass behind. "Don't let the nightmares get you."

Do'ormo'ot watched the Terran got over and talk to some others before sitting down on the bench, withdrawing a square package, and removing a tube that he then lit with paper flame-strikers. Do'ormo'ot watched the Terran he had been talking to exhale smoke then looked back at the glass.

The water beads slid down the side, forming a small puddle. It reminded him that he was getting thirsty and he licked suddenly dry jowls.

After a few minutes the threat of thirst became too much and he grabbed the glass. The glove made the glass feel heavy and odd to his touch. He brought the glass up under his mask and tilted it, taking a deep drink.

He was aware of the liquid in his mouth, but it didn't seem to do anything beyond being aware that there was fluid in his mouth. He tried to swallow it but it was like jelly. It was doing nothing to moisten his mouth, just sat in there, like some kind of liquid plastic.

After a moment Do'ormo'ot spit it out and lowered his head as the water turned back into liquid and spattered across the black stone. As Do'ormo'ot watched it began to steam, black vapor rising off it that quickly turned to dust the then dissipated.

The Terrans watching all started laughing.

"How's that taste, cow-pie?" was one shout.

There were other mocking shouts and Do'ormo'ot stood up, shaking in rage.

One of the white gloved figures drifted up. "Prisoner 4582143, returning to your cell at this time will give you a one-half socialization period credit. Do you wish to return to your cell?"

"Yes," Do'ormo'ot said, still shaking as the Terrans kept laughing.

As he was led back to his cell he heard one of the Terrans call out to him: "Get used to it, cow-pie!"

-------------------

The slide snapped back. "Prisoner 4582143, you will report for interrogation. Move back from the door."

Do'ormo'ot shifted, keeping away from the window, which he was slowly learning to dread looking out even by accident. The omnipresent purple made him flinch at the way sometimes it seemed to go on for eternity and other times it seemed to press against the window trying to find a way in.

The door opened and Do'ormo'ot trotted out. The door closed and the figure paused.

"You will follow. End of Line," the figure stated.

The winding path was different than last time, Do'ormo'ot payed close attention to the route. Twice they moved through strange rooms. One had bench seats arranged in a row and a black statue of an armored Terran male wearing a laurel leaf crown. Another had murals painted on the walls of obvious religious figures.

Finally the figure led Do'ormo'ot back into the office with the uncomfortable chair and the single desk made up of twisted Terran figures and the interrogator.

Do'ormo'ot sat down without prompting.

"Beginning interrogation stage two of Prisoner 4582143," the figure behind the desk said.

The door was gone, leaving nothing but a blank wall. There was only the desk, the window looking out on the purple sky, the couch, the interrogator, and Do'ormo'ot.

"Identification of paternal genetic donor? Reply," the figure stated.

Do'ormo'ot knew the program. He'd used it himself. Start with basic, harmless questions to get the subject to open up, slowly move onto more and more in-depth questions slowly leading to what the interrogator really wants to know.

Do'ormo'ot knew not to answer that.

After a few moments the figure repeated the question. Then again. Finally it made a motion.

"Interrogation of Prisoner 4582143 terminated. Subject non-compliant. Return to Cell. End of Line," the figure said.

The figure erupted into a puff of black granular mist that roiled and then sucked back into itself and vanished.

Do'ormo'ot got up stiffly from the seat, the nodules on the bench hurting his abdomen, the width of the bench hurting his hips. He turned around as the bench poofed into mist and vanished at the same time the desk did.

Another figure, wearing white gloves, was waiting.

"Prisoner 4582143 is being returned to his cell. End of Line," it said.

Do'ormo'ot planted his hooves. "No. I want to see who is in charge of this facility."

"Prisoner 4582143 has verbally stated his refusal to return to his cell. Level Two Negative Stimulus will be applied if Prisoner 4582143 does not comply," the figure said.

Do'ormo'ots instinct was to go back to his cell, remembering the pain of having his jaw squeezed and his eyes pushed on, but he was determined to confront whoever was running the facility.

"Level Two Negative Stimulus shall now be applied," the figure said.

Right when Do'ormo'ot went to turn his sneer into a cutting verbal tirade something kicked him in the lower ribs.

Hard.

He slammed against the wall and felt someone grab his neck, pinning his head against the wall, as fists, knees, and feet hit his upper and lower ribs. He felt one rib go, and suddenly he was released to fall kneeling on the floor. The pain was sharp, intense, and made it hurt to breathe.

"I'm hurt," Do'ormo'ot moaned.

"Prisoner 4582143 has insufficient privileges for medical treatment. End of Line," the figure intoned.

Do'ormo'ot got to his feet. "You have to treat me for injuries. It's in your own rules."

"Prisoner 4582143 is being returned to his cell. End of Line," the figure said.

Do'ormo'ot stared, his eyes almost bugging out, but followed slowly, favoring his right foreleg so he didn't put too much stress on the rib. It was more than bruised, the bone was cracked, but not broken.

Finally he got to his cell and the door closed. He moved over to the wall and leaned against it to take the pressure of his ribs. The stone felt like slightly giving hard plas, no texture, no temperature, just that it was present.

After a long period of time he noted that his rib stopped hurting.

Another long bout of indeterminable time passed and the slot snapped open.

"Prisoner 4582143, you are allocated two hours of religious observance, solitary excersize yard attendance, or one hour of library time. You have sixty seconds to make your decision," the masked figure on the other side said. The dischordant voice again scraped on Do'ormo'ot's nerves.

Do'ormo'ot thought quickly.

"Library time," he stated.

"Prisoner 4582143, move back from the door," the figure said.

Do'ormo'ot complied then moved out of the cell when instructed. He followed the figure as it seemed to just glide across the floor. Again the path was long and winding until he reached a large area with shelves, covered with printed books. No computers, no lights, just ever-present dim illumination from no apparent source. Do'ormo'ot believed the light was from airborne nanites, an old trick that always seemed to be one of the first uses of nanites a species discovered.

"Prisoner 4582143, you have one hour of solitary literature time. Books provided are pertaining to your culture have been provided as well as literature from Terran allied species and Terran cultures. End of Line."

Do'ormo'ot looked around, realizing he was alone. He moved through the stacks.

Perhaps here he could find something to help him plan an escape.